


It's Not The Point

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Explicit Language, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will not be the first time that Draco hurts you, and it’s not the point of his fencing foil that will hurt you the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not The Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/gifts).



> My eternal gratitude goes to ColorfulStabwound for inspiration and friendship. I'm gifting this to them because I probably would never have shipped Draco and Theodore were it not for their influence.
> 
> My first foray into Draco/Theodore was written in 2009 and started out with this scene, a scene that was really a collaborative idea between me and ColorfulStabwound. 
> 
> Since writing that first piece, I've formed a much clearer vision in my head of who Theodore is and who Draco is. I now have a better understanding of the dynamics between them. 
> 
> This story is a reimagined version of how Theodore got his scar.
> 
> To a particular Draco that started it all.

It all begins with a slash and a flash of blood.

 

You are fifteen.  It’s Thursday.  Thursdays in the summertime always mean fencing practice.

 

Draco Malfoy knows his way around a fencing foil. To watch his lithe arms slice through the air with swift precision, and to behold the flawlessness of his impeccable footwork, is to admire a perfectly executed dance. And you’ve been admiring him _a lot_ lately. He moves with agile poise and the sinuous figures he carves into the air with his foil could inspire artists to immortalize his postures in marble. 

 

When he spars against you, his usual haughty sneer gives way to an expression of determination and focus that is almost feral in comparison to his default bored mien.  You know you’ll never win against him – but you keep trying because you want to watch him break a sweat.  You want to make him come undone.  You want him to take all of the rage that slowly builds behind his collected exterior and to passionately unleash it upon you in a whirl of swishing limbs and clashing foils.  

 

There has always been a part of you that takes sick satisfaction in being able to rile him up.  But now it has become less about lighting his fuse and watching him explode, and more about savoring the delicious and sensual things that Draco does inadvertently while he’s kicking your arse. You curse the white fencing uniforms, quite vocally and colorfully, not just because the tight, stretchy fabric highlights the delightful curve of Draco’s backside, but because it makes the physical manifestation of your admiration very painful to contain.

 

He evades every jab you serve, parries every shot you attempt, lands more valid touches than you can ever hope to match – and though he frustrates you to no end, he still manages to make you hard in your trousers.

 

But you will never admit any of this out loud. Not the bit about Draco being quite good at fencing, and _definitely_ not the bit about Draco being _fucking sexy_ when he’s besting you.

 

He’s cocky enough as it is without you inflating his ego.  Not that you ever have. He touts himself as the best at everything.  But you’ve always been better (except at fencing), though your superiority often goes unspoken. Your actions speak louder than his words.  He’d boast that he’s a natural at potions as he adds too much powdered bicorn horn to the cauldron while you quietly brew the perfect swelling solution.  He’d scoff after an exam he’d deemed too easy, only to barely earn an _A_ , while you effortlessly receive an _E._ You would never rub it in his face, but you’d casually let him know every time you were better, not for your own satisfaction, but in hopes of deflating his head a bit.

 

You know that Draco is going to win this fencing match today.  Not that it matters. You don’t play for sport, but because your fathers had decided a few years ago that it was a good discipline for boys to master.  It is not more than a game between friends, but you both take it as seriously as if you’re training for the muggle Olympics.

 

You will never resign to lose. You start every practice like you’re going to win this time.  You’re already in the fully outfitted sporting studio of Malfoy Manor, several minutes ahead of schedule, when Draco struts in and grabs his foil from the rack mount.

 

“You’re here early.  Eager for defeat, I see,” he drawls as he pulls on his gloves.

 

You grin wryly and reply with slightly more sarcasm than cheek, “You know me - I’m always eager for you to stick it to me.”

 

“If you’re really keen on me putting it in you, Theodore, I could have the enchantments lifted from our foils. I’d be happy to penetrate you properly.” He smirks darkly as he toys with the blunt tip of the blade. 

 

The natural rapport you have built with one another as best mates over the years had been slowly evolving into subtle flirtation and not-so-subtle innuendo these past several months. You don’t even giggle at his remark.

 

“You’re not going to get through this uniform even if you sharpen the blade,” you point out, “They say you can’t feel it when you’re wearing protection.”

 

Draco snorts haughtily.  “You just want to get me out of my kit, pervert.”

 

You shrug, trying to hide your blush. “We should do it. It’ll be exciting with real stakes.”

 

“And what are those stakes?” Draco asks with a sharply raised brow.

 

“If I hit my target, I make you bleed, and score a valid touch.  Let’s see how well you do under threat of _actually_ getting hurt.”

 

Draco shakes his head with amusement. “Did anybody ever tell you that you’re a sick motherfucker, Theodore?”

 

“All the time,” you admit.  You close in on him slowly, perhaps challengingly, and maybe with a hint of underlying seduction.  When you’re in his personal space, you incline your head and speak almost in a whisper. “So do you want to have a proper go at me, Draco?”

 

“Fuck yes,” he hisses with a sinister smirk, “Let’s do it.”

 

The rubber caps come off the foil blades along with the spells that keep the tips from scoring flesh.  You both strip off the protective bodysuits and vests you wore as part of your kits, leaving you with just your white trousers. You have to bite your lip hard to keep from reacting to the sight of Draco’s smooth, bare torso.

 

He throws down his gloves, hefts his foil, and brushes back the fringe of his hair with his free hand, revealing silver eyes that stare at you with primal hunger.  You are unsure if he wants you, or just wants your blood and your defeat, but differentiation hardly matters when Draco makes you feel coveted right down to your quivering bones.  You will gladly let him devour you in any way that he wants you.

 

He assumes his dueling stance with an arm behind his back and invites you into play.  “ _En garde_.”

 

You both perform hard and fast under the influence of adrenaline and the thrill of the risk of real bloodshed.  Draco manages to work up a sweat before either of you can land a target, and the way his skin glistens is extremely distracting – not to mention that you become dangerously preoccupied with watching the way his faint muscles ripple with each precise thrust of his foil.

 

The first time he hits his target, he has enough calculated restraint not to hurt you terribly.  But the foil still stings when it pricks the front of your shoulder and you hiss through your gritted teeth, though you do not halt play. You engage him with a sloppy retaliatory jab that he easily swats away with a snort.

 

“You’re not even trying, Theodore.” He lets his guard down for a moment to provoke you.  “Is that all you’ve got?”

 

In frustration, you lunge at him with your foil, aiming low and reaching long, leaving a wide expanse of your torso carelessly exposed. Of course you miss. In a fraction of a second, you realize that he is about to take a shot at you and you flout the rules of play by turning your body rather than using your foil to bat away his – it is a rash, self-preserving reaction that is most definitely bad form.

 

Your impetuous attempt at avoiding injury backfires spectacularly.  As you twist, the sharp tip of Draco’s foil slashes along your side, tearing a long gash below your ribs.  It all happens so fast. Draco’s eyes widen with shock – you know that it was not his intention to slice you open and that the seriousness of your injury is the result of both your combined impulsive reactions, though it is perhaps more your fault than his.

 

The pain sears through your rent flesh and makes you gasp with horror.  Your foil falls from your hand and clanks upon the floor as you clutch at your wound. He must have nicked a blood vessel, for you are bleeding more than you’d expect, given the minor depth of the cut. The stark flash of crimson against the pallor of your skin, splattered over the whiteness of your trousers, is alarming enough to make you dizzy.  You involuntarily fall to your knees.

 

Draco rouses from the paralysis of shock and rushes to you.  “I didn’t mean…,” the rest of his words die on his tongue.  His eyes are large and helpless, and his face looks sickly pale.

 

“Fucking do something,” you plead. “Get help.”

 

Terrified, Draco shakes his head adamantly and stutters, “I-I-I can’t.  If father finds out, he’s going to kill me.”

 

“If you don’t fucking stop the bleeding, _I’m_ going to die.” Perhaps you’re being a bit dramatic, but your injury really does require immediate attention.

 

Draco puts his hand over yours, adding pressure to the wound in an effort to stem the flow of blood.  Blood seeps between your fingers and spills onto his. You are lovesick and twisted enough to find this gruesome vignette terribly romantic.

 

Shakily, Draco says, “You’re bleeding so much.” The pinched expression on his face has you worried that he’ll either faint or break down and cry. “We are so fucked,” he whimpers.

 

You are breathing erratically and wincing with every other shallow intake of air that inflates your chest and exacerbates the pain. But you manage to pant out, “Cauterizing spell.”

 

Draco sputters, “But, I don’t…”

 

You interrupt impatiently, “ _Urere vulnere_.  Hurry.”

 

Draco takes his hand off yours and his palm comes away wet and red.  He reaches for his wand in his back pocket, smearing crimson on his trousers.  You let go of your side and blood oozes anew from the cut.

 

“Oh gods.”  Draco points his wand at you, swallows hard, and looks like he’s going to sick up.

 

“Draco, please,” you beseech exasperatedly.

 

He hesitates, hovering his quivering wand over the laceration.  “What if I make it worse?  I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“Too fucking late,” you mutter, then urge him as you brace yourself, “Draco, just do it.”

 

He uses the spell on you, though his lack of confidence in his healing proficiency and his unsteady hand does more harm than good.

 

You scream in agony as white-hot pain scorches across your skin like fire.  The smell of your own burnt flesh makes you nauseous and light-headed.  Your eyes roll back and everything goes black.

 

 

When you open your eyes again, it is several minutes later.  You find yourself lying on the floor with Draco hovering above you.

 

He heaves a huge sigh of relief. “Fucking hell, Theo. I thought I’d killed you.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint you.”  You blink up at him, trying to focus your eyes. He’s a bit blurry, but you can tell that his face is damp. “Were you crying?”

 

Affronted, he rights himself, glances away, and scoffs, “No, I was not bloody crying.”  He absently wipes the wetness from under his eyes with his stained fingers and your blood smears across his cheeks like war paint. 

 

With his mussed hair and streaks of red across his face, you muse to yourself that Draco looks like a savage from a children’s picture book. You carefully tuck away this image in your mind for safe keeping because you doubt that you will ever see your best mate so unwound, so disheveled, and so vulnerable ever again. You find it terribly endearing and it makes your heart swell painfully inside your chest.

 

 

But what you don’t know is that, many years down the line, when you’re both adults but no less reckless than you are now, Draco will lie beneath you in a bed that you share and he will look very much like this. You will unwind him with your lips and ruin his hair with lustful fingers and turn him from a gentleman to a wanton savage with the press of your body against his.  You alone will have this power over him.  He will reverently caress the faded scar that he had left on your side and he will inflict new ones upon your heart.

 

 

Later, when you’ve regained your wits enough to stand, you and Draco clean yourselves up in the washroom adjacent to the fencing studio.  He is unusually quiet as he scrubs your blood off his hands.  His eyes are fixed solemnly on the red-tinged water that swirls down the drain.

 

“Hey,” you mutter softly and nudge his shoulder with yours.  “It’s okay. I know it was an accident. And if you get in trouble for using magic out of school, I’ll cover for you.”

 

He turns and pierces you with an incredulous silver stare.  “Why? I almost killed you.”

 

You glance away and shrug, hoping he doesn’t notice that you’re blushing. 

 

You forgive him because you know he’d never intentionally hurt you – at least not to the degree that he had. You will cover for him because you can easily imagine the sort of beating he’ll get if Lucius Malfoy finds out what Draco did to Thaddeus Nott’s only son.  You will let Draco get away with this and worse because you’re secretly very stupid and perhaps not so secretly in love with him.

 

“That’s what friends do,” you simply answer.

 

The corner of Draco’s mouth turns up slightly. It’s not the sort of smirk that says _I’ve got you wrapped around my finger_ – it is the kind of genuine smile that expresses appreciation, if only furtively. You feel privileged to know the subtle difference.

 

 

You twist in the mirror and assess the damage. There is a puffy, pink line where the gash had been.  You experimentally dab it with a wet washcloth to clean off the dried blood and wince at the way it stings.  It feels more like a burn than a cut, likely the result of Draco’s rushed cauterizing spell.

 

“Mother has some salve that should help with that,” Draco offers.

 

“Think it’ll scar?” you ponder, frowning at the ugly, irritated welt.

 

Draco examines it more closely and sucks air through his teeth sympathetically. “Yeah, probably.  You sure you still want to forgive me?”

 

“I’ll think about it,” you say with a wry grin. He nudges you playfully. You ask him, “Were you more afraid of losing me or getting in trouble?”  You don’t expect his answer to please you and you don’t know why you even bothered to pose that question.

 

Draco doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Both.”  He says it casually as he fixes his hair in the mirror, as if the answer is unimportant.

 

But it means the world to you. You stand there biting your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot, well after he’s left the washroom.

 

This will not be the first time that Draco hurts you, and it’s not the point of his fencing foil that will hurt you the most.   He will cut you deeper, right down to your soul.  He will tear your heart to pieces and scatter the remains for you to pick up on your own. He will leave indelible scars in his wake and the dull ache of the harm he inflicts upon you will linger for years. And still, you will love him. You will love him forever because you’ve been beaten down so much that you’ve become indestructible.

 

From the moment Draco had cut you with his blade, _Pain_ and _Love_ had become synonymous.  You will never be able to completely separate the two. Even when Draco loves you back, you will always need him to hurt you, if just superficially, to make his love feel real.


End file.
